


He Saw Fire

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Injury, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:02:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadshot should be dead. He shouldn’t have been rescued. Cupid should never be still and silent. She was the fire and he was the bullet, wasn’t he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Saw Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Set after third season episode 'Suicidal Tendencies', major spoilers for that.

 

 

 

The first time Floyd woke up, he could smell burning rubble. It was a smell he was used to. It didn’t matter how expensive the travel was, his world was always gun oil, worn leather and a lot of fucking burning. When he looked around now, the world was also streaked black and smoky and a distinctive patch of fire. Good. John hadn’t tried to play the hero; he must have gotten away, back to his baby daughter. Good.

 

When Floyd surfaced again, he registered how much his legs hurt and how he couldn’t clench either hand into a fist. The picture in his pocket probably wasn’t there anymore. Soon he wouldn’t be either.

 

When he woke a third time, the world smelled clean and sterilized and fuck, he was still breathing. He didn’t make any sudden movements. He could tell immediately that one of his arms was in a cast. His good eye was still good, he opened it a crack and cased where he was and what the hell had happened. His hands itched for a scope and a trigger.

 

A hospital, small, not all that busy. The lights were dim and there was someone else breathing in the room too. Floyd turned his head, yep another bed and a body laid out on it. There was that fire again, only this time Floyd could see what it actually was – Cupid, hooked up to an IV, still wearing her Suicide Squad gear, the stillest he’d ever seen her. What the fuck was she doing here?

 

The door opened and a nurse walked in, tired around the eyes and not nearly as wary as she should have been.

 

“You’ll be staying until you’ve healed; Ms Waller’s orders.”

 

The nurse’s tone was clipped and business-like. So this was most likely an A.R.G.U.S facility, that explained a lot but not how Floyd was still alive after the building he’d been standing on had blown up.

 

Floyd let out a raw chuckle, “Waller doesn’t usually care what shape I’m in as long as I can hold a gun.”

 

The nurse didn’t hesitate as she began checking Floyd’s vitals, “I wouldn’t know.”

 

“But you do know how I got here.”

 

The question was obvious in his tone. The nurse spent a moment more inspecting one of the machines he was plugged into before answering, “Cupid brought you in. She could barely stand; we had to sedate her so that we could actually see the full extent of her injuries.”

 

Cupid had brought him in. Floyd glanced over at his roommate again; there were thick bandages covering her arms and hands. She must have burned her skin, scrabbling through scorching rubble, trying to find him apparently. Love was a bullet to the brain, hadn’t he told her that? And this wasn’t even love.

 

When he’d glimpsed her before, as he’d been dying, he’d thought she was fire. Engulfing everything it touched, out of control, dangerous; it suited her.

 

“Her upper body was severely burned, she’s dehydrated and needs rest,” the nurse listed, her tone as clipped as before.

 

Floyd’s gaze assessed Cupid, “Waller’ll have her back out in the field before she wakes up.”

 

“You broke your right arm, your legs sustained serious damage, there's a lot to heal. But with treatment and rest, you’ll be fit for field duty again.”

 

Duty. Floyd shook his head. Duty had meant something to him once; this was just suicide, protracted and inevitable. A bullet to the brain, taking its time getting there. It was all Floyd had, and all he deserved.

 

The nurse placed a full water glass in his hand, the one currently unplastered, and stuck a straw in it, “Take it slow.”

 

She left him to it, probably to call Waller. Floyd drank the water slowly, he knew the drill. His gaze reattached itself to Cupid. She was certifiable and she was fire and he was the bullet, wasn’t he?

 

She was too still.

 

Floyd looked away.

 

_-the end_


End file.
